A Pointless Illusion
by dysprositos
Summary: Loki was not entirely certain why he bothered with the illusions. Until, one day, he was. But by then, it was too late.


**Thanks to my fabulous beta, irite, who pointed out where I'd failed utterly to convey what I was attempting to convey.**

**This contains spoilers for Thor 2. It is essentially me flailing around with my Loki feels and trying to get a foothold so I can go back to business as usual. Any discrepancies between the movie and this fic will be fixed later. Like, when I've seen it more than once. And have had some time to process my overwhelming feeeeeeeels.**

**Warnings: Loki.**

* * *

Loki was not entirely certain why he bothered with the illusions.

Part of it, he had thought at first, was that there was very little privacy in the dungeons, but in truth Loki was not overly disturbed by this. His treatment at the hands of his Chitauri 'friends' had left him little room to speak of something like 'dignity.' He had no illusions left in that regard; days left lying in his own blood and vomit waiting to heal enough that they considered him ready to undergo another bout of 'persuasion' had stripped him of any dignity he may have once had.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He had degraded himself when he'd actually given in and done what they asked. They had taken most of his dignity, but Loki knew who had truly seen to his downfall. He preferred to not think of this, found it unpalatable, and he was surprisingly good at ignoring those things that did not suit his current agenda.

Anyway, Loki concluded that he had no pride left, no dignity, and thus the lack of privacy did not disturb him. He did not mind, really, having every facet of his life made public, every action, every bodily function.

He could no longer feel something as mundane as shame, and that left the question still unanswered. _He_ _didn't know why he bothered_.

He told himself, then, that it was defensive. That appearing strong to the other prisoners may someday prove useful. The appearance of power could be just as useful as power itself, after all, and he needed to be ready in case a situation ever arose in which he was depending on the creatures locked in the cells around him.

That was it. The best he could do. He could not think of another alternative, really.

Until, one day, he did.

But by then, his revelation was too late.

* * *

Upon learning what was to be his fate, Loki had been angry, of course. He had never imagined imprisonment would be his end. He had _expected_ to die when he'd dropped from the Bifrost, had _wanted _to die at the hands of his Chitauri friends, had _fantasized _about his own execution at the mercy of the Asgardians. But a quiet death, after millennia of waiting for it in prison? That, he had never entertained. No, he had seen glory or, at the very least, melodrama (which could be satisfying in its own way). But to be locked away, silenced, ignored, until the day of his death?

No, that would not do. Not at _all_.

It was actually...infuriating.

And so for the first several weeks of his confinement, Loki seethed. He paced, and threw things, and snarled at the other prisoners who dared look at him. They couldn't hear him, of course, and it was completely ridiculous, but it made him feel better. As much as he _could_ feel better.

He did not feel much, anymore, except rage and ice-cold indifference.

Or so he thought.

His anger was futile, though, and it soon faded to resentment as he accepted that yes, his anger was pointless. It would be better, he thought, to conserve his energy. Thus, Loki, resigned, began to live as normally as he could. He ate the meals with which he was presented, groomed himself to the best of his abilities, and caught up on the reading he had abandoned when he had taken his little sojourn off the Bifrost.

Frigga started coming to visit him, then, in her way, and Loki wondered how closely he was being watched. Through magic, all things were possible, and it was thus possible that he was under constant scrutiny.

When Frigga expressed concern that Loki had skipped a few meals, Loki knew. She _was_ watching him.

He did not ask Frigga how often she checked on him. He did not need to know. And he certainly did not care. Why would he? Her actions meant nothing to him.

Or so he believed.

He _did _have a talent for ignoring the obvious, after all.

The days passed in an endless, trickling stream. To a man who believed himself a god, the tedium was unbearable, dragging against him, pulling him down into torpor. Five months into his imprisonment, Loki had mostly lost his ambition to do much more than sprawl across his cot and stare at the ceiling. The solitude left him with only his own thoughts, and they were not friendly entities. Not at all. While he was not plagued by guilt, per se (as that would require caring for someone other than himself, and he most certainly did not) he did tend to dwell on the fact that his life could, upon careful consideration, best be captured by the phrase 'miserable failure.' Which sapped him of any desire to, well. Live.

It was a sad state of affairs, really, but he did what he could to mitigate it by projecting an image of himself carrying out his 'normal' daily tasks.

He did not know _why_.

And he _certainly _did not connect it to his awareness that his mother was watching him.

It just made him feel better.

As much as he _could _feel better.

Things only spiraled down, though.

Eight months spent—wasted, really—imprisoned, and Loki had mostly migrated to the floor, as moving onto the cot was too much work. Prison, it seemed, suited him very ill, and those days that he did not spend staring listlessly out into the other cells he spent in agitated pacing, muttering fragmented incantations and speaking fairly often, he was sure (though could not confirm), to a voice that only he heard. He did not eat, just disposed of the food he was brought, and he did not sleep but for a few fitful hours each night.

If had not been mad before (which was entirely possible, he acknowledged), he was fairly certain he was now.

And yet he maintained the illusion of good health. To all onlookers, he seemed at ease, calm, bored, even.

Above all, normal.

It was baffling to him, but he felt it had to be done.

Loki couldn't justify it. His only visitor, after all, was the image of his mother. And he had no interest in impressing the other denizens of the dungeon. But concealing the extent of his downfall, even as he questioned the remnants of his own sanity, took precedence.

After several months, he gave up questioning it.

The prison riot, as it were, took place on a 'listless staring' day about a year and a half after the start of his imprisonment. At least, it had started out as a listless staring day, but it had been morphed into an 'angry pacing day' after his most recent visit from his mother. They had parted on a bad note, which Loki was trying desperately to blame Frigga for, yet he could not, for some reason, quite make the logic work out, even through the labyrinthine passages his thoughts took to get from one point to another.

Hence the agitation. Loki did not like it when his thoughts did not do what he wanted them to.

He had just begun to calm, to settle down, back into his favorite position on the floor, when the riot began. He heard the creature before he saw him, and upon hearing the first crashes, Loki perked up marginally. From what it looked and sounded like, the prisoners were being freed from their cells.

Loki didn't particularly feel like moving, that was the problem, and being freed would fly in the face of his plans for the day, which were to continue staring in one general direction and perhaps blinking occasionally.

Despite that, he sent himself to stand up by the magic barrier of his cell to seem at least interested in what was happening. That was a normal response, after all, and seeming normal was his inexplicable goal.

The creature came up to face him, but instead of freeing Loki, he appraised him and then...left him confined.

Which suited Loki surprisingly well. He was fine where he was.

Still, he told the creature conversationally, "You may want to take the staircase on the left."

After all, it was probable that whatever this thing was had come here for Odin, and Loki was generally (though not entirely, he had decided after several days spent conversing with himself), in favor of killing Odin. If someone else were to do it, well, all the better, right?

Then he settled in to watch the guards and, eventually, Thor, try to quell the uprising, certain that it would be over soon.

It was not until much, much later that someone came to tell him about Frigga.

And then, just for a moment, his illusion slipped.

* * *

When Thor came, Loki had not slept.

He had been too busy.

He had, he felt, rather methodically destroyed every piece of furniture in his cell. He had yelled, mostly at himself. He had managed to cut his foot on a piece of broken glass and then, just out of spite, had stomped through the shards again, though it had little effect aside from agitating him further.

Yes, Loki had been quite occupied.

But Thor did not need to know that, and Loki's illusion was perfect.

Though he did not know why.

Until Thor said, "No more illusions."

And Loki dropped the act, the spell, immediately. After months of holding it steady, even as he did not understand why, he just...stopped.

Then, he knew. It became painfully crystal clear.

Why _not _drop the illusion?

Why did it matter now?

The illusion, his efforts at hiding how he'd _broken, _how he'd fallen...had been only for one person's benefit.

For the one person who might have worried for him.

Loki had not wanted Frigga to worry for him.

Because he cared for her, about _something_, about something other than himself. He did. He cared, and he hadn't wanted her to worry, not for him, not when he was...what he was.

The illusion had been to save her suffering. She was the one thing he still cared about, and he had _killed her_.

Loki knew, then, that he would do anything Thor asked of him, if only he got the chance to make this right.

As if he could.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, review if you're so inclined.**


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